


always one foot on the ground

by theundiagnosable



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, fitzsimmons au challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re searching for magic?” Fitz says, utterly bemused. “Like- what? True love’s kiss?”<br/>“Oh please,” scoffs Simmons. “I am still a scientist, you know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	always one foot on the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theradiointukyshead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theradiointukyshead/gifts).



> for theradiointukyshead on tumblr for the more than 5k challenge - some of your suggestions were backpackers!fitzsimmons and magical realism!fitzsimmons, so i... did... both???? hopefully this is at least mildly coherent, and fun for you to read! thanks for the lovely prompts!

i. 

They reach for the same book at the same time, and that’s how it begins.

“Sorry,” says Jemma, even though she’s not. He tugs at the neck of his sweater and says nothing.

The book is obviously old and even more obviously obscure – she had to ask three clerks and an old man on a street corner before finding it in a corner of the Croatian national archives. The binding is coming undone, with pages sticking out at odd angles and folding over at the corners.

It looks, she thinks hungrily, like the sort of book that holds a Capital-S-Story.

“Sorry,” sweater boy says, ages too late, at which point they both reach for the book again.

With a small huff of irritation, Jemma meets his eyes for the first time. She barely has to look up – he’s a couple centimeters taller than her, if that, but the way he carries himself makes the distance seem even less. There is, Jemma thinks, something distinctly awkward about him, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to exist around others. He holds her gaze.

“I need this,” he says, gently condescending, with the air of one used to explaining simple concepts.

“So do I.” Jemma pulls the book off of the shelf before he can protest. She turns to leave, but with a ‘hey!’ that’s more shocked than annoyed, he grabs the corner of the book, making her whirl back around.

“I need this,” he says again, drawing out every syllable, “for important scientific research.”

“Funny,” Jemma says, pleasantly enough to be as intimidating as possible. “So do I.”

The stranger flushes, and makes to pull the book toward himself. “Right, well, this is the only non-translated copy, so-”

“So,” Jemma says forcefully, tugging the book back in her direction, “find a translated copy.”

“Oh please, none of the translations maintain the integrity of the original.”

“I’m sure you can manage.”

“You’re sure-” He splutters, then seems to collect himself. “Look, this is important. My train leaves in eight hours.”

Jemma straightens, triumphant. “Mine leaves in three.”

For a tense moment, they just stand there, each clutching an opposite end of the book and refusing to drop the other’s gaze. Then he sighs.

With a nod toward the cover of the book, he asks, “Who reads about Greco-Roman street plans anyway?”

Jemma straightens, trying and only just failing to hide her enthusiasm. “If you must know, I’m studying ley lines.”

When he speaks, the awkwardness has been replaced by a sudden, keen interest. “To what end?”

“To prove that magic is real.” She answers without hesitation, as matter-of-fact as if she’s discussing the weather.

Sweater boy doesn’t look at her like she’s crazy, which is notable in itself – in scientific circles, the mere suggestion of magic is synonymous with utter lack of respect. Most of her peers, when they learn what she wants to do, look at her with a mixture of confusion and pity that, even now, leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. It’s not easy, going from wunderkind to academic pariah.

(The stranger isn’t looking at her like she’s a pariah.)

(She still doesn’t let go of the book.)

“What about you, then?” Jemma asks. “Why do _you_ need a book about Greco-Roman street plans?”

He watches her like a cornered animal, a mix between cautious and morbidly curious. “You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I’m studying ley lines. Too.”

Jemma studies him, discerning as she can be, but there’s no trace of a lie on his face. “Why?”

For the first time, he smiles, just the smallest quirk of the smallest corner of his mouth, but a smile nonetheless. “To prove that magic doesn’t exist.”

+++

She’s never been one to shrink from a challenge, academic or personal. This one is both, so she follows it to a cafe and interrogates it over hot chocolate with whipped cream.

He introduces himself as Dr. Leo Fitz (“PHD – two of them, not MD.”) as they’re approaching the cafe’s entrance, and from there it’s only a matter of time before Jemma makes the connection.

“Oh!” She exclaims. “I’ve read your thesis, the one where you refute the possibility of undetectable forms of energy and therefore-”

“-matter.” They finish at the same time, and Jemma nods enthusiastically.

“Brilliant, really.”

Fitz inclines his head, the picture of modesty, before opening the door and stepping back so she can go ahead.

“Brilliant.” Jemma says again. “I actually had to work to disprove that one.”

+++

She introduces herself as Dr. Jemma Simmons. (“MD. Well, and PHD, but the other one’s my favourite.”), darts through the door with an innocent smile, and leaves Fitz tripping over his feet in his haste to follow her.

It’s around then that he first realizes he has no idea what on earth he’s got himself into.

 “Listen to this,” says Simmons, once they’re seated across from each other, book open between them. “ _With reference to popular maps of the area, and eyewitness testimony._ Eyewitnesses - It’s bound to have something.”

For a moment, Fitz just stares, taken aback by the sheer strangeness of it all. He wonders distractedly if the ‘don’t talk to strangers’ rule applies to argumentative short people in national archives. The short girl in question is looking at him expectantly, though, so Fitz musters up a response. They seem to be skipping small talk all together. “Unreliable, though.”

“We _are_ talking about magic, here.” There’s something rather imperious about the way she says it, like she’s all too used to being right. And he’s a doctor, for god’s sake, and ages beyond a genius, but despite himself, Fitz can’t help a small stirring of defensiveness.

“You’re talking about magic. I’m talking about perfectly explainable natural phenomena.”

“Oh, come on.” Dr. Simmons says. “You can’t really believe that.”

“I can, though.” She fixes him with another look, because apparently saying things without actually saying them is a habit of hers. With a small sigh, Fitz clarifies. “Every single thing that our ancestors thought was magic has been traced to a solar eclipse, or a trick of the light, or- or hallucinogenic fungus in the drinking water. Magic does not factor into it. And...” He trails off, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Hang on, why am I explaining myself? You’re the one who thinks that fairy stories are real.”

 “Not fairy stories. Magic. And it’s not as – thank you – ridiculous as you think!” She interrupts herself to accept her hot chocolate from the waitress. Fitz does the same, takes a sip, and promptly burns his tongue; which, alright, could admittedly be cooler, but he’s not the one chasing a fairy tale, so there.

Blissfully unaware of Fitz’s internal monologue, Simmons continues. “Magic is the unexplained, right?” Fitz nods. “But it doesn’t have to be. If we could only accept that there are forces beyond what we know, we could study them and harness them and discover so much more! Not everything can be explained by our physics and logic. Magic is science beyond what we know, that’s all.”

It takes Fitz a moment to realize when she’s stopped talking, and he’s surprised to find that the realization is not a pleasant one. There’s something engaging in her speech, a passion that’s contagious enough to make him wonder if there is, perhaps, some truth in her words.

Simmons meets his eyes with a small smile. “You’ve got whipped cream on your nose, by the way.”

(He immediately dismisses any effect that her words might have had, and decides that he needs to get out more.)

“Ley lines,” he says, grabbing at the first change of topic he can, as well as a napkin. “You said you were studying ley lines.”

Simmons grins, like she’s been reminded of an old friend. “Yes. A traceable kind of magic. It seemed the logical place to start, if only I could find one.”

He’d thought much the same. “Hence the book.”

“Hence the book.”

With that, she turns her attention to the pages in front of her. And Fitz intends to leave it at that, he really, truly does, but then he notices her skipping over the section on pre-modern architectural influences, which is startling enough that he just has to point it out; and after that, well, he can’t entirely blame her if she questions why he spends so much time on the prefix; nor when she gasps as he dog ears a page.

There’s an easy sort of camaraderie about it, a feeling of equal give and take – perhaps that’s why, when the waitress coughs pointedly and tells them that the cafe is closing in ten minutes, they both look up, startled.

“No,” says Simmons, aghast. “It was half three when we got here, I know it.”

“Maybe we time travelled,” Fitz suggests, only half joking. Neither Simmons nor the waitress bothers responding.

“Hang on,” Simmons continues, concern dawning on her face. “What time do you close?”

“Six.”

She practically leaps out of her seat. “Oh, shit, shit, _shit_!”

Some part of Fitz’ mind wonders at her ability to curse like a sailor while still sounding overtly adorable. The other, smarter part of his mind is focused more on the fact that she’s rifling through her purse, tossing change on the table.

He gets to his feet as well, with a wistful glance at the book. “There’re probably other cafes...”

“It’s not that, it’s- my train leaves at five past six.”

“Oh.” Stupidly, ridiculously, Fitz has to fight a sting of disappointment. “Right.” It’s a feeling akin to waking up from a vivid dream, or pulling himself away from a riveting blueprint, like emerging from under some fairy’s spell – and damn it all, now her magic talk has gotten to him.

Simmons is staring at him, now, and there’s something in her eyes that he can’t quite place. “I should be getting to the station.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she echoes, then gives a small, perfunctory shake of her head, like she’s waking herself up. “I suppose I’ll see you, then. Or disprove another of your hypotheses.”

“Or I’ll disprove yours,” says Fitz, but it feels like more of an inside joke than an argument, like before. They exchange a smile and then, after a moment of anticipatory awkwardness, Simmons shoulders her bag and heads for the door.

“Wait.” He’s calling her back before he knows what he’s doing. “The book.”

With a small laugh, Simmons says, “Keep it. I’ll remember.”

This time, he watches her leave. It’s the sort of moment where, were he something other than a scarcely funded scientist with a cowardice complex, he’d chase after her and offer to be her research assistant and probably even kiss her, or something equally preposterous. As it is, however, he is, in fact, a scarcely funded scientist with a cowardice complex, so he watches her leave and thinks that, oh well, at least he has the book.

It’s rather less satisfying that he hoped.

+++

She makes it to the train station, barely, and ignores the part of herself that wishes she didn’t.

No one’s reserved the seat next to her, a relief – Jemma puts her bag on the chair, rifling through balled up socks to put back her wallet. Outside the window, the platform is small and cramped, full of suitcases and travellers and, she imagines, someone with a goal even more impossible than hers. She’s surprised at the sudden loneliness she feels - she’s used to being alone, likes it, even.  

On the platform, the last few stragglers are boarding the train, and, tracing the edge of the windowpane, Jemma reminds herself that this is what she’s wanted for as long as she’s wanted anything.

Then she sees Fitz on the platform and, upon further thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to want something new.

She pushes through the crowded carriage, nearly tripping over a stout French woman in her haste to get to the door. She and Fitz arrive at the same moment, and the sight of his ridiculous sweater makes Jemma smile like an idiot.

“What are you doing?”

Staring up at her from the lowered platform, he holds up the book, flipping through its pages until he finds the passage that he wants. “According to this, there’s a ley line passing through Rome.” Jemma looks at him helplessly, and he clarifies. “Through the Vatican, specifically.”

Now she understands. “Where miracles happen.” She grabs the book so she can look for herself, staring at the map that he found with wide eyes. _The locations, the reports...._ they match all of her research _._ “Miracles,” she says again, “and magic! Fitz, there’s got to be a correlation!”

“Correlation doesn’t equal-”

“-causation, I know, but it doesn’t equal coincidence either.”

“It might.”

“It might not.”

The train jerks forward suddenly, and she grabs the wall to avoid falling over. The conductor blows a warning whistle, loud and piercing, and Fitz takes a sharp step back.

“Thought you’d want to know.”

“So I can go to Rome,” Simmons says, and Fitz nods.

“Yes.”

“And you?”

He looks down, now jogging to keep up. “Don’t know, yet.”

“You could come with me.” As she says it, she freezes, taken aback by her own boldness. Fitz looks equally shocked which, bizarrely, reassures her that she hasn’t just made a fool of herself.

“What?”

“Come with me!” She’s nearly shouting, now, to be heard over the wind and the clanking metal of the train on tracks.

“To Rome?” They’re nearly at the end of the platform.

“To Rome!” Jemma gives a breathy laugh, teetering in the doorway and gripping the book as tightly as she can. Fitz meets her eyes for the smallest of seconds, like he’s testing her. She obviously passes, as he grits his teeth and flings himself through the doorway, sending himself sprawling on the floor past the now-scandalized looking French lady.

Jemma rushes toward him, a hand over her mouth. Everything feels strangely light, even as she’s dropping to her knees beside him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not kissing you,” Fitz says, sounded mildly dazed. She chalks it up to the fact that he’s just jumped onto a moving train. “Am I dead?”

“No,” Jemma says. “You’re going to help me prove the existence of magic.”

“Well,” Fitz says, “that’s good too.”

He sits up, rubbing his head, and his gaze lands on the book in her arms, dog-eared and tattered and generally looking quite the worse for wear. “Y’know,” he says mildly, “I think we were supposed to return that.”

The train races on, ignorant of the two laughing hysterically on the floor of one of its carriages, and Jemma decides she doesn’t mind his sweater much at all.

ii.                    

“For the last time,” says the security guard, “there are no overnight tours of the castle.”

“But I don’t understand why!” Jemma throws her hands up, frustrated. It’s a mark of how utterly fed up she is, thinks Fitz, that she’s anything but polite. Superbly nonplussed, the guard shrugs.

“It’s a safety issue, take it up with customer services.”

Thrown off, Jemma exchanges a sheepish look with Fitz, who’s been hanging back. “We’ve tried. She won’t pick up our calls anymore.”

Ever-ready with his favourite argument, Fitz cuts in. “It’s not as if we need the castle for a personal thing – we’re scientists. This castle is important to our field of study.” The security guard doesn’t look impressed, so it’s probably a good thing that Fitz doesn’t elaborate on the exact nature of that field of study.

“And we can pay,” continues Jemma, thankfully declining to mention that they’re each living out of a knapsack and that funding for study of magic is approximately zero.

Neither of these arguments does anything to sway the guard, who points them toward the door with an air of finality. Fitz practically has to drag Jemma away.

“Don’t say it,” he says. She does anyway.

“We’re breaking in.”

“We’re not.”

With an innocent smile toward the ticket booth, Jemma says, through gritted teeth, “Oh, yes we are.”

“We are not,” says Fitz, summoning up every ounce of authority he has, “breaking into a medieval Irish castle.”

+++

“I can’t believe we broke into a medieval Irish castle.”

“Shhh,” Jemma shushes him urgently, tugging him back into the bathroom stall in which they’ve been hiding for the past hours. “We don’t know that the guards are gone.”

Fitz’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “We don’t- you said they’d be gone!”

“I said,” Jemma hisses back, “that they _probably_ would be gone.”

“Oh, please-”

“Shh!” She claps a hand over his mouth at a sound from somewhere in the castle. Obligingly quiet – not that he’s got much choice – Fitz waits, listening for any sign that they’ve been discovered.

The moment passes. He quirks an eyebrow, and there’s something about the gesture that could be described as boyishly charming, if it wasn’t so obviously unintentional. Slowly, Jemma takes her hand off of his mouth.

She didn’t plan on visiting Ireland, though goodness knows that there’re enough stories of ancient beings to lure any aspiring magic-finder. No, she had a concrete plan, at least until they visited Rome and discovered a manuscript that led them to Rio de Janeiro, which turned up an extraordinarily helpful old woman who directed them to a library in England, which led them here.

Also, some minor breaking and entering might be involved – which, fine, she didn’t plan for, but she’s working with it.

She looks over at Fitz, a hair’s breadth away in the cramped stall. He shakes his head resolutely, so Jemma steels herself, grabs his arm, and tugs him out into the castle.

They tiptoe through the rooms, footsteps obnoxiously loud against the rough stone. When they arrive at a spot that they deem acceptable, Jemma sets up her tripod and switches on her video camera. The stories say that this ghost appears on film, but only at the darkest part of night, a theory that she’s willing to try. To be fair, at this point, she’d try nearly anything. It’s been six months that she’s been searching for magic, four with Fitz. Small successes are well and good, but she wants something conclusive, damn it!

 With a small sigh, she joins Fitz where he’s sitting against a wall. The stone is anything but comfortable, but he pours her a cup of tea from a thermos and as they sit, knees touching, it’s something close to cozy.

“You set up your equipment?” She asks needlessly, already knowing the answer. Fitz holds up his monitor in response. “Good,” Simmons says. “That’s good.”

She sips at her tea, deep in thought. For a long while, it’s silent. She assumes that Fitz is occupied with whatever mechanical device he’s toying with, and she jumps in surprise when he nudges her side.

 “What?”

She narrows her eyes. “What what?”

“You’re being different.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m just thinking,” she says. “Things have been much easier since I met you. I’m glad. That I met you, I mean.” Fitz looks mollified by her comment, and it’s his turn to fall silent. When he speaks again, he sounds just as thoughtful.

“Why is it so important to you?” He asks, without looking up from the transistor radio  that he’s currently dissembling. “Magic, I mean.”

She’s not thrown by the change of subject. “Do you know,” says Jemma, “what every major biological discovery of the past thousand years has in common?”

Fitz shakes his head.

“Every one of them proves the same thing: That what we once thought was impossible is not only possible, but undeniable. We can find the blueprints of humanity itself! Why not magic?”

Fitz grins, half-teasing. “You want to discover magic... so you can study it?”

She knows that he’s expecting her to scold him, so she doesn’t, instead settling for a small shrug. “It would make the universe a little less terrifying, wouldn’t it?”

He gives a small, noncommittal noise.

“What about you?”

“I think you’re confused, Simmons, I don’t much want to discover magic at all-”

“Oh, hush.” She elbows him, recognizing his teasing tone. “I mean why are you so determined not to accept that it exists?”

“Magic?”

“Obviously.”

He makes a face at her, and she makes an even more gruesome one back. When he’s finished looking appropriately horrified, he answers.  It’s the most distinctly Fitz-like answer he could possibly give, and Jemma feels a rush of affection, the sort that always comes with familiarity.

She was, thinks Jemma, always supposed to be here, now, with him.

With the utmost seriousness, Fitz looks out at the castle around them and says, “I don’t need magic to think that the universe is terrifying.”

Similarly contemplative, and careful with the gesture, Jemma leans her head on his shoulder. He stiffens momentarily, then relaxes under her weight.

“Not all of it, though.” She says.

“No,” says Fitz, after a long moment. “Not all.”

(“I’m glad that I met you too, by the way,” he says, later. Jemma just smiles.

“I know.”)

+++

They don’t end up capturing footage of the ghost, but their equipment goes haywire around midnight and in the morning, the camera’s memory is wiped.

She’ll take it.

+++

“How does this sound,” Jemma starts, reading aloud from her laptop. “ _Assuming the validity of the evidence, it can be assumed –_ no, that’s rubbish, I said ‘assume’ twice.”

It takes Fitz a moment to realize that she’s speaking – he’s neck-deep in another book about ley lines, trying to figure out if they count as matter or a force (assuming, of course, that they exist, which he still thinks is unlikely). “You did, yeah.”

With a morose groan, she lets herself fall back onto the bed, jostling Fitz and forcing him to take notice. The duvet is a nauseating paisley pattern, the hallmark of the hostel that they’re currently calling home. It’s a far cry from the pristine labs he used to work in, and even from the cramped apartment that’s still waiting for him back at the university, but something about the room is strangely charming.

Simmons sighs, and something about the roundness of her cheeks and the tangles in her hair make Fitz’s heart beat a little faster until he realizes – oh. It’s not the room.

Jemma opens her eyes, and he looks away as fast as he can.

“Do you think I’m wasting my time?”

After a second’s deliberation, Fitz decides on honesty. “Yes.”

“Fitz!”

“What?” He resigns himself to not finishing his book any time soon, and turns to face her properly. “You’re the one who’s team magic.”

“You’re in a closet-sized room in Israel because we’re chasing a mythical energy line. You’re as _team magic_ as it gets.”

“I reject that assertion,” says Fitz, very grandly. “I’m here to be the voice of reason, not encourage your search for- for _fairies_.” He’s expecting her to deny it, or argue with him, or both, but instead she just stares at the ceiling. “Oh god,” Fitz says. “ _Please_ tell me you don’t believe in fairies.”

“People discover new species all the time!”

Fitz scoffs. “What else? Dragons?”

Simmons shrugs, only half-joking. “They _are_ mentioned in an awful lot of ancient texts, from an awful lot of different cultures...” (He thinks she’s joking, at least.”

Fitz lies down next to her, squirming on the thin cover. “Princesses in towers?”

“Doesn’t count, it’s not even magic.”

“True love’s kiss.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffs good-naturedly. “I _am_ still a scientist, you know.”

+++

It’s funny, how quickly he’s gotten used to being around her. Simmons’ presence becomes a constant, something unquestioned and even unnoticed.  It isn’t that he’s unobservant, or that she’s not worth observing – because she is, so much that sometimes when they’re testing samples of possibly supernatural moss or falling asleep on long bus rides he thinks she’s the only thing he ever wants to look at again – but, rather, that it feels so exquisitely normal. Like an extension of himself.

“Magic is contrary to our very identity as scientists.” He says one day, then realizes what it sounds like. ‘Our identity’, he says, singular – as though the two of them make up a single entity.

She doesn’t bother disagreeing.

+++

There’s a certain irony to the fact that, when they finally, _finally_ experience magic firsthand, it’s Fitz that leads them there. This irony isn’t lost on Jemma – in fact, she thinks she should have predicted it. There’s nothing more storybook than a reluctant hero, and Fitz was (is) as reluctant as can be.

It happens out of the blue, when they’re sitting on a pier in Spain and sharing an order of hot, greasy chips. They aren’t even talking about magic and its existence or inexistence, but about whether or not Fitz was scared during the scary movie they watched recently.

“You were crying like a baby!” Jemma says, laughing, and Fitz shakes his head, not quite managing to hide a smile.

“I wasn’t.” He says, and when Jemma keeps laughing, he protests only a bit more convincingly. “I wasn’t! I have allergies.”

“To pollen, Fitz. We were on a plane.”

“Pollen can be on planes!”

“Can it? Can it _really_?” She draws out the word, luxuriating in it. Fitz mimes pushing her in the water, and she retaliates by flicking a chip at his face. He manages to catch it in his mouth, and looks blissfully pleased with himself.

“Did you see that?”

Jemma waves a hand, dismissive. “Coincidence.”

“Memory, actually.” Fitz says, grabbing another handful of chips. “You always throw the same.”

“Because that’s the best way to throw.” Jemma says petulantly, preparing to launch into an explanation. “The arc of the ball, or chip, I guess-”

“Hang on.” Fitz interrupts, suddenly serious. “You always throw the same.”

“You said that already. And yes, but it’s _because_ -”

“No, Simmons –“ Jemma pauses, slightly irritated at not being allowed to finish for the second time. “We always throw the same.”

“Again, you already said that.”

“Just- we’re scientists, right?” He’s suddenly energetic, on the verge of bouncing off the pier and into the crystalline water below.

“Very good scientists, yes.”

“Exactly! And we rely on the scientific method to make us good scientists, right?”

“Yes.”

“But,” says Fitz, “but magic isn’t science. It isn’t logic, or order, or any sort of method at all. We’re following the ley lines as though they’re a pathway on a map, but what if that’s wrong?”

Starting to get it, Jemma frowns. There’s a strange feeling of adrenaline, like they’re on the verge of something major. “You think science is slowing us down?”

“Yes!” Fitz exclaims, then sighs. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“No,” Jemma says, “No, it makes sense. We can’t expect to apply normal logic to an illogical problem.”

“So if the ley lines aren’t paths,” Fitz picks up where she leaves off, “then what are they?”

Simmons gasps.

“Fitz, you’re brilliant!” She scrambles to her feet, pulling him with her and nearly sending them both toppling into the water. With some difficulty, Fitz regains his balance, just in time to be pulled along at breakneck speed. “How didn’t we see it before?”

“Still not seeing it!” He says, with a wistful glance in the direction of their abandoned supper.

“You will!” Jemma promises, with a glint in her eye that Fitz knows means they’re going to be on a plane soon. “We will!”

+++

The ley lines, she explains, aren’t paths. It’s his statement that gave her the idea, the one they’ve been waiting for.

“All this time,” she says, as he’s on hold with the airport trying to book the soonest flight possible, “we’ve assumed that the leylines are a source of the magic, like a power supply or an electrical outlet, and that by following them, we’d find the magic they cause. But what if they’re not a cause? What if they’re an effect?”

A blur of activity, she pulls pages of hand-drawn and printed maps out of her bag, spreading them out on the floor so he can see. “They intersect all over Europe, but if you look at them all together-”

“They’re a circle.” Fitz says, shocked. Simmons beams up at him, and he blinks, stunned. “The source of the magic is in the middle, and the ley lines are-”

“Symptoms!”

The airport worker answers the phone, capturing Fitz’ attention. He still doesn’t look away from the maps.

Magic isn’t real, he tells himself, and tries his hardest to believe it.

iii.                   

They hike deep into the forest, so deep that neither knows what country they’re in any more, and that’s how it begins.

The signs appear, one by one, slowly at first – a circle of smooth rocks, trees twisting into unearthly shapes – then all at once.

They step into a clearing, utterly isolated. Fitz has never felt further from the rest of the world, and almost unconsciously, he grabs Simmons’ hand. There’s a feeling here; an important one, a particular one, like they’ve stumbled into someplace older than they can possibly imagine. Someplace living.

Dazed, nearly dreamlike, Simmons holds out the hand that’s not attached to his. For a few seconds, Fitz doesn’t know why, and then he sees it – tiny, golden flowers, shimmering like dust in the sun, floating through the air around them. Immediately wary, he fights the urge to pull Jemma back. They both stay where they are, though, and when the flower reaches her palm it stays there too, pure and perfect.

Simmons’ face breaks into a dazzling grin, and magical floating flowers be damned, Fitz swears that that’s what takes his breath away.

Pulling out of his grasp, Simmons holds out both of her arms, spinning around in the rain of flowers. They land in her hair and on her skin, making her shine to the point where it nearly hurts to look at her. He does anyways.

She looks giddily happy, and literally glowing, and that’s probably why, when she meets Fitz’s eyes, he makes an absolute idiot of himself.

“The universe,” she proclaims, to him and a forest of nobody, “is beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.” Fitz says without meaning to.

_Shit._

“Brain-wise, I mean.” He retracts, stumbling over his words. “Because you have a beautiful brain, is what I was trying to- you’re quite a smart person. Obviously.”

She’s rather closer than he’s expected, nearly blinding – perhaps that’s why he’s so surprised when she leans forward and, light as a feather, presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. It’s quick and chaste and barely there, and it feels as though he’s been branded for life.

“What was that for?” He asks, after a moment of stunned silence.

Simmons shrugs. “You’re beautiful too.” She says matter-of-factly. “Brain-wise, I mean.”

“Of course.” Fitz can’t bring himself to stop smiling, and by the looks of it, neither can she.

“Of course.”

+++

“I think I can believe in magic, now.” He says, later.

Jemma gives a wicked grin. “Correlation doesn’t equal causation, remember?”

Fitz looks at her and thinks _magic._ “It might.”

“Yeah,” she says, looking up at him with a fondness that seems on the verge of overflowing. “It might.

 


End file.
